


The We’ll Always Have Paris Affair, Part 1

by SashaTheGypsy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 15:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaTheGypsy/pseuds/SashaTheGypsy
Summary: Part 1 of an origin story in which Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo first meet; the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement (U.N.C.L.E.) is born; and Illya and Napoleon are invited to join.





	The We’ll Always Have Paris Affair, Part 1

Act One: A Solo in Paris

Napoleon Solo clung to what was left of the metal railing around the edge of the building and contemplated the end of the shortest career in CIA history.

He hadn't expected his first assignment to end this way. He would have preferred a more romantic fate, like dying in the arms of a beautiful woman or going out in a John Wayne-style blaze of gun battle glory. That would have been a much more dignified death than falling three stories from a Paris warehouse in January. 

The agonizing pain in his arms and the biting cold soon snapped him out of his musings and back to reality. So did the stern, Russian-accented voice coming from the man standing above him.

“Where is the microfilm?” demanded the Russian in almost perfect English. 

“I told you it's back in my hotel room,” muttered Solo, as he dangled over the side of the building. 

“Bullshit. My men searched your hotel room. It's not there. You must have it on your body. You obviously came here to hand it over to another courier.”

“Well, if you pull me up, I'll tell you where it is.” Then, with some small measure of desperation in his voice, Solo added: “I can't hang on much longer.”

The Russian crouched down to get on eye level with his nemesis. Raising his gun slowly to the middle of Solo’s forehead, he traced a line down to the bridge of Solo’s nose, finally positioning his weapon between the American’s eyes.

“I really don't have to pull you up, you know. I could just shoot you, then go downstairs and retrieve the microfilm from your dead body,” replied the Russian.

“You could splatter me all over the sidewalk if you want. But that would be awfully rude of you, now wouldn’t it?”

Several seconds passed as the two young men stared at each other, blue eyes to brown.

Then Illya Kuryakin laughed, holstered his weapon and reached out to pull a frozen Solo up onto the rooftop. 

Act Two: “We Are Sending You to London”

Two days earlier, Solo had waited nervously outside the office of the CIA Chief of Soviet Operations. Fidgeting with his gold cufflinks, he adjusted his expensive Italian suit jacket and repeatedly ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. 

Solo had joined the Central Intelligence Agency after a life as only child of wealthy, doting parents. The grandson of an admiral and an ambassador, his upbringing had consisted of only the best — the best prep schools, the best clubs and the best people. 

He flunked out of Harvard after majoring primarily in Country Clubs and Coeds. The elder Mr. Solo soon found his unambitious son a legacy spot at his alma mater, Yale University. 

With a growing interest in politics and international affairs, the younger Solo pursued a degree in political science and tried to get serious about life. 

At Yale, he found himself attracted to a charming blonde classmate named Deirdre Marshall. In an act of youthful love, and partially in parental defiance, he and Deirdre married in their junior year. But what was to be a promising life with a wife and a future family ended less than a year later in a car crash on a dark, rain-soaked road.

Widowed at the age of 19, the death of his young wife at first plunged Solo into an ocean of martinis and meaningless affairs. Only after a stern talking-to by his maternal grandfather the Admiral did Solo begin to get his act together and turn his attention to his future. 

With encouragement and a degree in hand, he applied to the CIA as a junior intelligence analyst. He had been in that less-than-satisfactory job for almost six months when he was summoned to the chief's office.

“Chief Wilson will see you now, Mr. Solo,” said Barbara Collins, the attractive brunette receptionist. “Please come this way.”

After a lengthy, appreciative glance at her trim figure, Solo walked into the mahogany office and sat in a leather chair directly facing the Chief of Soviet Ops.

“So, Mr. Solo, I understand you want to be a CIA field agent.”

“Yes, sir, did you get my transfer application?”

Chief Wilson gazed critically at the young man across the desk, noting that Solo’s suit probably cost more than his first teenage car. 

“Yes, Mr. Solo, I did. But I'm puzzled as to why you think you have what it takes to be a field officer."

“I’ve already taken and passed the basic firearms and first field training courses, sir. I’m smart, educated and know I can do the job.”

Looking at the cocky, overconfident young man, Wilson had his doubts.

"Well, we're going to find out, Mr. Solo. We've chosen you to be one of a team of couriers for a very important mission. You’ll report immediately to Special Operations Manager Jardine for your mission briefing.

“Then, we’re sending you to London.”

***  
In Moscow, Major Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin arrived punctually for his appointment. The corridors of the Lubyanka Square KGB headquarters were quiet because it was supper time and many staff had already gone home for the evening. 

Standing at attention in the office of European Operations Director Oleg Kirov, Kuryakin was oblivious to the come-hither glances of the female office staff. 

He announced himself simply: “Major Kuryakin, reporting for my briefing.”

Tatiana Markova, the director’s red-headed secretary, looked knowingly at buxom blonde typist Ludmilla Dvorkina. Both sighed. 

Although they frequently drew the admiring attention of male visitors to the office, they had been around long enough to know their beauty was unlikely get a response from the young major. 

According to rumour, he wasn't a monk, but his interest in women seemed confined to occasional sexual encounters. 

Kuryakin was known to be emotionally remote and didn't appear to need anybody. As far as anyone knew, he had never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend, nor did he seem to have many close personal relationships at all. His reserved manner and reluctance to discuss his personal life was a constant source of frustration to curious females. His past — and most of his current life and habits —remained a mystery to everyone but a select few. 

Rumours abounded about a boyhood in Kiev; a family tragedy; a life on the streets; time spent with gypsies; a short career in crime with a gang of Muscovite black marketeers; and his eventual rehabilitation. 

What was known for certain was that Kuryakin served as an officer in the Red Army Special Forces, where he distinguished himself and rose to the rank of major. He retained his rank when he joined the Committee for State Security, aka, the KGB. 

But as to the rest of his life story, nobody knew for sure. 

Some of the more admiring KGB women considered uncovering the mystery and winning the major’s cold heart to be their prime objective in life. 

“Good evening, Major Kuryakin,” smiled Tatiana. “The Director is running a little bit behind schedule today. He'll be with you in a few minutes.”

Kuryakin acknowledged her with a nod. When the director finally appeared, he followed him into the small conference room. The room featured whitewashed, concrete block walls and a long wooden table and chairs. There were no windows. 

Kuryakin sat himself down beside a film projectionist and fixed his gaze on a blank, white wall in front of him. Director Kirov began the briefing. 

“This is a very important assignment, Major Kuryakin, and one on which the future of our beloved Mother Russia may well depend.

“This,” he said, pointing to the image just displayed on the wall, “is a British scientist named Malcolm McKitrick. It is rumoured Dr. McKitrick has invented a device for the Royal Navy that turns seawater into synthetic fuel.”

Kuryakin was no chemist but this assertion sounded absurd. He caught himself wondering about the drinking habits of the KGB’s London station chief. There had been rumours... 

“That hardly seems possible, Comrade Director," said Kuryakin out loud, raising a single eyebrow in disbelief. “Have we verified this intelligence?”

“We were on the verge of verifying it when our operative was arrested by MI5. The mission was aborted for fear the rest of our British network would be exposed.

“The Americans are aware of this device. Our latest reports indicate they have obtained a microfilm copy of the device plans from the English and are preparing to bring it back to CIA headquarters in Washington via Paris. 

“CIA will use multiple couriers to confuse us. But fortunately, our agency moles have uncovered the identity of the London-to-Paris courier. His name is Napoleon Solo and he is a new operative.” 

Kirov pointed to a projected image of a dark-haired, handsome and obviously American young man about Kuryakin’s age. 

“Whether the device works or not, Comrade Major, our superiors have decided we must have it also. If it does work, it would allow enemy ships to remain at sea and their submarines to stay submerged for almost limitless periods of time. That is a major threat to our Soviet navy and to our national security. 

“Your assignment is to intercept this courier somewhere along his route, retrieve the microfilm and bring it back to Moscow. To begin your mission, we are sending you to London."

Act Three: A Foggy Day in London Town

Napoleon Solo sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport waiting for his flight to Paris. He was trying to finish the Times of London crossword puzzle. Foggy weather had delayed his plane’s scheduled arrival, so he had a bit of a wait ahead of him. 

His time-killing pursuit was suddenly interrupted by the loud, collective giggles of the group of teenaged girls sitting directly across from him. 

Following their gaze, he saw a young blond man stroll into the lounge area carrying a black duffel bag. In stark contrast to Solo’s gray, three-piece suit and hand-tooled Italian leather shoes, the young man was dressed simply in a black turtleneck sweater, blue jeans, a heavy brown sheepskin jacket and boots.

Probably some graduate student backpacking his way across Europe, thought Solo. He couldn’t help but notice the young man radiated a strange sort of charisma that seemed to fascinate the teens. With his shaggy blond haircut and casual dress, the man looked like a cross between a beatnik and a biker. 

A little jealous the teens weren’t paying that kind of attention to him, Solo consoled himself by thinking of the valuable microfilm concealed inside his secret overcoat pocket. He had just picked up the canister from Whitehall. 

The microfilm would stay put, safe and secure, until he turned it over to his CIA contact in Paris. 

Ignoring the giddy girls, Solo turned his attention back to his puzzle.

He hardly noticed when Beatnik Biker Guy later joined the line at the Paris departure gate.

Act Four: The CIA Wore Gray, You Wore Blue

Arriving in Paris, Solo checked into a small, nondescript hotel near the river Seine. He had three hours to wait until his rendezvous with the CIA courier at a nearby warehouse. Then the microfilm would be out of his hands and on its way to D.C. 

Signing the hotel register, Solo noticed the bevy of attractive desk clerks in their bright yellow jackets and black pencil skirts who flocked around the front desk. 

He especially admired the fit of the tailored jacket on a pretty, tall blonde with a bouffant hairdo and heavy eye makeup. He made a mental note to ask her what time she got off work. After all, he was staying overnight, so he might as well relax after completing his mission. 

Asking a passing porter for directions to the bar, Solo decided to return there for a drink and something to eat after stowing his luggage in his room. 

The three hours passed quickly. On his way out, he asked the still on-duty clerk — whose name he learned was Yvonne — what time she finished work. 

Her eager smile and quick response told him that his inquiry was much appreciated, and heralded well for a successful evening date. 

Solo took a cab to a nearby warehouse, whose address he had previously memorized. There, he would rendezvous with the final courier and pass along the microfilm. Solo had been given the usual code words for identification, and knew his contact would be an English-speaking staffer from the CIA’s Paris station. Solo had been told the courier would wear a gray trenchcoat and be there by 6 p.m. sharp. 

Entering the abandoned warehouse, Solo made his way to the first floor landing where large windows gave him a clear view of the street. 

He looked at his watch and waited. Soon, it was past 6 p.m. His contact was late. 

Suddenly, the quiet of a Paris twilight was shattered by noisy vehicle engines. Solo looked out the window and saw a motorcycle and a tiny car pull up in front of the warehouse. Three thuggish, stocky men in blue jeans and shirts emerged from the car and paused to talk to the slim man on the motorcycle. After a brief conversation, they returned to their vehicle and drove off. 

The motorcyclist remained. Surveying the warehouse with a penetrating stare, he took off his helmet and entered the building.

Dammit, swore Solo to himself. It’s Beatnik Biker Guy. And he’s coming in! Only then did Solo realize the young man he had mistaken for a graduate student in London was, in fact, a KGB tail.

Cursing himself for his stupid, rookie mistake, Solo pulled his revolver out of his overcoat pocket and quickly moved up the warehouse stairs. As he neared the top of the building, he caught a glimpse of the young man, gun in hand, racing up the steps toward him. 

Reaching the mostly-barren third floor, Solo quicky realized there was no place to hide. With nowhere else to go, he decided to take his chances on the roof.

Solo reached the roof about 20 seconds before the Russian. There were a number of metal ventilation intake ducts there, which provided convenient cover. 

For a while Solo and the Russian played a deadly game of moving between the structures, emerging only to long enough to take a shot at the other. 

After what seemed like hours, the Russian’s gun fell silent. Peering cautiously around his duct, Solo naively hoped the KGB agent had given up and left. 

No such luck. As he rose to move to the roof door, Solo felt a pair of hands grab him around the neck from behind.

Since it was winter, the roof surface was coated with a thick layer of ice. The Russian grabbed Solo, slamming him down hard. The American slid across the roof and out beneath the protective railing guarding the roof’s edge. Solo managed to grab onto it just seconds before his lower body fishtailed, leaving him dangling dangerously over the side of the building.

Their final moments together were more of a dénouement than a climax. The KGB agent did keep his promise to pull Solo up. Flipping him neatly onto his back, the Russian drop kicked Solo back across the icy roof. His involuntary skate came to an abrupt halt when his head struck a metal ventilation duct.

Gun drawn, the visibly frustrated Russian advanced on the semi-conscious courier and snarled: “I think you have something I want.” 

Searching Solo roughly, he found the microfilm canister in the overcoat. Extracting it with a firm yank, the Russian slipped it into his own jacket pocket. 

Then, aiming his gun squarely at Solo's face, the Russian teased the trigger as he stared Solo directly in the eye. 

Solo was sure he was about to die. 

To his amazement, the Russian suddenly broke his gaze, lowered his weapon and, without saying another word, departed down the roof stairs. 

A stunned Solo tried to sit up and shook his head in an attempt to restore his senses. Straining to hear, he detected the fading sound of a motorcycle racing away in the night. 

Not long after, a friendly Frenchman in a gray trenchcoat appeared on the roof, apologized for being late and helped Solo to his feet. 

Although it seemed like an eternity, the whole confrontation had taken less than an hour. It was still early evening in Paris. 

On the ride back to his hotel, Solo wondered how he was ever going to explain this to his superiors at Foggy Bottom. The incident had shaken him badly. 

But not badly enough to cancel his date with Yvonne. 

Act Five: Aftermath

Solo returned to CIA headquarters in Washington, fully expecting to be fired. After all, his first assignment had been a total disaster and he had lost the microfilm to the KGB. 

The debriefing was as tough as he expected. 

Chief Wilson and ops manager John Jardine lectured him for over an hour about his stupidity in not recognizing he was being tailed by a KGB agent. 

Solo’s pampered youth had not prepared him for the personal attack on his abilities, but he stoically endured it anyway.

Jardine asked Solo the key question. Who was this KGB guy?

“Well, he didn't exactly stop to introduce himself,” replied Solo sarcastically. 

Noting the disapproving looks from his superiors, he shifted to describe Beatnik Biker Guy. Average height. Slim. Blond. Steely blue eyes. Longish hair. 

Wilson shot Jardine a knowing glance. Pulling out a file folder from his desk drawer, the chief slid a photograph across the desk and asked: “Is this him?"

“Yes,” replied Solo, after taking a long look. 

Jardine and Wilson started to laugh.

“I don’t find this situation at all funny,” Solo retorted indignantly.

Jardine cut him off with a wave and a grin. “Relax, kid. It was Illya Kuryakin. You got lucky.”

“Lucky? Lucky?” Solo almost yelled. “I could have gotten splattered all over the sidewalk. Froze my ass off hanging over the side of a building. Got drop-kicked all over a roof. And, by the way, just who in the hell is Illya Kuryakin?"

“Only the best intelligence officer the KGB has,” replied Wilson.

Jardine explained: “Kuryakin is efficient, brilliant and lethal. Some people say he’s a sociopath, others say he’s just highly motivated but has poor social skills. 

“Nevertheless, he’s managed to outsmart every CIA operative who’s ever gone up against him. A rookie like you never stood a chance, Solo. Frankly, given his reputation for ruthlessness, I’m amazed Kuryakin left you alive."

“He almost didn’t,” Solo admitted. “He had his gun aimed at my face and I was sure I was going to die right there. But something seemed to make him change his mind at the last moment. He just up and left me laying there.”

“Then you got lucky twice,” Wilson laughed. “First, because you’re alive. Secondly, because it was Kuryakin. If it hadn’t been him, you’d be getting your walking papers right now. As it is, you get to bask in the glory of being the latest Kuryakin casualty.”

“Some glory,” grumbled Solo. 

“You get to keep your job, Napoleon,” Jardine said. “Next time, try to pay more attention to your surroundings, ok?”

Humiliated and cursing career bureaucrats, Solo left the chief's office. He was thankful he’d gotten another chance, but he couldn't help but feel very misunderstood because his superiors didn’t fully appreciate how much he had suffered. In addition, he was furious at Kuryakin for the humiliation, and at the whole damned Soviet Union in general.

If I ever run into that SOB again, boy, he’s going to be sorry, Solo thought.

Running various revenge torture scenarios in his mind, he walked back to his desk in the analysts’ section. Knowing glances from fellow workers told him the story of his disastrous first mission had already spread throughout the Foggy Bottom grapevine. 

“Cheer up, Napoleon," quipped Rhonda Miller, as he sat down at his desk. (Rhonda was one of the few female analysts who had managed to resist Solo’s celebrated charms.)

“Look, here’s a memo from Director CIA,” she said, practically shoving the piece of paper into his face. 

“There's a new international organization being formed. It's called U.N.C.L.E. Don’t know what that stands for, but they’re recruiting from all the world’s intelligence services. Since you’ve bombed here, maybe they'll take you!”

Solo shot Rhonda a nasty look, but took a moment to stash the memo in his jacket pocket. You never knew. 

***  
A week later, Illya Kuryakin made his way through the crowded halls of KGB headquarters toward the intelligence section offices. Looking around for an empty desk in the bullpen, he spotted one with a manual typewriter he hoped would work this time. (They often didn’t.)

Before sitting down, he stopped at the set of wooden boxes where the clerks routinely put the officers’ mail. 

Juggling the Western-style sandwich and glass of black tea that comprised his lunch, Kuryakin extracted a flyer from his mailbox. 

The only mail the officers usually received was an endless flurry of mostly cheerful memos from senior KGB bureaucrats. The really important mail — paychecks — were hand-delivered weekly by payroll department staff.

The purpose of the “Dear Comrade” memos, as the officers called them, was to encourage good morale. But the truth was that the officers often used their verbose, bureaucratic prose for comic relief, discreetly mocking their bosses behind their backs. 

Putting his lunch down on a desk, the young KGB major raised an eyebrow as he glanced more closely at the flyer.

“What the hell is an U.N.C.L.E?” Kuryakin asked, spelling out the initials and addressing no one in particular.

A reply came from his best friend, fellow officer and old Red Army comrade, Dmitri Mikhailovich Rostov.

“It’s a new international organization. The British are forming it with the help of a committee made up from many countries. They are recruiting intelligence people from all over the world. We have been invited to attend a recruitment and information camp," Rostov said enthusiastically.

“International organization? Intelligence officers from all over the world working together? That's just crazy," replied Kuryakin. 

“We all hate each other."

“Yes,” said Rostov, “But it certainly sounds intriguing to me. I am curious to attend such a camp. What about you, Illya Nikolaevich? Will you come as well?"

“We’re a little too old for camp, Dmitri Mikhailovich,” Kuryakin said with a smile. “It’s not the Komsomol after all. If you want my opinion, the whole thing sounds like a silly idea destined for failure. Besides, would our superiors really let us go?”

“The flyer came from the office of the Chairman of KGB himself, so it must have been officially approved. Otherwise it never would have been distributed to us,” Rostov replied. 

“The camp is to take place two weeks from now on a private island in the Caribbean. Come on, Illya, it will be February in Moscow. The Caribbean is warm and sunny. Even if this U.N.C.L.E. idea goes nowhere, it’s a free winter vacation. Think of the beaches, at least!”

“Maybe later, Dmitri,” Kuryakin said. “Right now I have to type up my report on my mission to Paris. I'll look at the paper over a glass of vodka tonight when I am home.”

Rostov nodded and returned to reading the U.N.C.L.E. flyer.

“International organization, my foot," muttered Kuryakin under his breath. “Ridiculous idea. It will never work.”

Then he sat down to eat his lunch and type up his report.


End file.
